Всадник без головы

Chapter 44

           Theripplingofthestreamcloseby,thewhisperingoftheleavesstirredbythenightwind,thechirrupofcicadas,theoccasionalcryofsomewildcreature,arebutthenaturalvoicesofthenocturnalforest.

           Midnighthasarrived,withamoonthatassimilatesittomorning.Herlightilluminestheearth;hereandtherepenetratingthroughtheshadowytrees,andflingingbroadsilverylistsbetweenthem.

           Passingthroughthesealternationsoflightandshadow—apparentlyavoidingtheformer,asmuchaspossible—goesagroupofmountedmen.

           Thoughfewinnumber—asthereareonlyfourofthem—theyareformidabletolookupon.Thevermilionglaringredlyovertheirnakedskins,thestripedandspottedtatooingupontheircheeks,thescarletfeathersstandingstifflyuprightabovetheirheads,andthegleamingofweaponsheldintheirhands,allbespeakstrengthofasavageanddangerouskind.

           Whencecomethey?

           TheyareinthewarcostumeoftheComanche.Theirpaintproclaimsit.Thereistheskinfilletaroundthetemples,withtheeagleplumesstuckbehindit.Thebarebreastsandarms;thebuckskinbreech-clouts—everythingintheshapeofsignbywhichtheseIshmaelitesofTexasmayberecognised,whenoutuponthemaraud.

           TheymustbeComanches:and,therefore,havecomefromthewest.

           Whithergothey?

           Thisisaquestionmoreeasilyanswered.Theyareclosinginuponthehut,whereliestheunconsciousinebriate.ThejacaléofMauriceGeraldisevidentlythebuttoftheirexpedition.

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